


if all good things ever come and go

by scarlettroses



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst, Gen, Major Illness, Very Very Sad Stuff, i don’t expect anyone to actually read, this is totally self-indulgent and is really just me venting some emotions, uhhh race dies so please don’t read if that will upset you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 07:30:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14786129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlettroses/pseuds/scarlettroses
Summary: He's bony now; the ridges and bumps of his wrists and elbows are clearly visible under his ghostly-pale skin. His cheekbones are sharper than usual, accentuated by the cherry red flush that sits atop them. They haven't been able to get him to eat in days, anything they try just sits against his lips and eventually falls.Jack can’t help but think that Race is starting to waste away. He swallows hard before squeezing his eyes shut and shaking the thought away. That's not right— Race will get better. He has to. Right?





	if all good things ever come and go

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not really sure what to say about this, honestly. It’s something I’ve felt like writing for a while, maybe it’s just a weird way of dealing with some stuff I’ve been going through. 
> 
> In the past year, two people I know well have passed away very young. It’s been weird to deal with that feeling that it can really happen to anyone? And I think that’s what I was trying to convey in this work. 
> 
> If reading about this is going to upset you, just don’t bother. This is just a piece I needed to get off my chest, and writing is my outlet. 
> 
> All things considered, thanks for bothering to click on this in the first place :) Please don’t cry.

It's quiet.

Too quiet, if you ask Jack. It's unsettling.

The Lodging House is _never_ quiet. There's always something going on: boys scuffling with each other, card games full of yelling and excitement, or even just the chatter of all the kids sitting around.

Jack has never known it to be _silent_ in here.

It's deeply uncomfortable and upsetting, in a way that most things have felt since Race got sick, just last week. Everything has been different, and not in a good way.

Jack had forgotten this little bedroom even existed, across the hall from Mr. Kloppman's office. It's a tiny space with nothing more than a single bed, a chair and an end table. There's a window out to the back alley, and the fire escape to climb to the roof passes right by it. It's away from any living areas or bedrooms, that's why it's so damn quiet.

Jack had forgotten about it because it's not often anyone goes in here. This room is reserved for boys who are really, _really_ sick— the ones who probably won't get better. It's a hospital ward of sorts, but with only room for one patient and a severe lack of medical professionals. In all honesty, it's a room where kids go to die.

They'd moved Race in here yesterday morning, when they realized that he'd become too sick and feverish to even will his body to cough anymore— a stark contrast from the hacking cough that had been troubling him for days. It was Finch, who's surprisingly knowledgeable about illness and whatnot, who'd taken one look at Race that morning and shaken his head.

"It's not good," he'd said, with somewhat of a nervous shakiness to his voice. "If he's not coughing anymore, but his fever's that high... that's not good."

He'd leaned in close to listen to Race's breathing, and had cursed softly at the wheeze and rattle in his chest that accompanied every shallow breath.

He hadn't said anything about that part, nor had he said a word after he'd pressed the back of his hand to Race's forehead. He'd just looked at Jack with this sad, _scared_ look, and that had said it all.

Finch was the son of a doctor, before his father had passed and left him alone. He'd followed along on years of house calls and appointments, learning all he could. If there's anyone Jack trusts to know what's going on here, it's him.

Together with Albert and Specs, they'd wordlessly carried Race down to this little bedroom. They didn't have to say it, the message was clear.

This isn't looking good.

 

-

 

Race looks so small, laying in bed.

He's only fourteen, and though he's tall for his age, he's very slight. Even before he'd grown ill, he'd been thin and wiry— he'd always looked as if a strong enough gust of wind could probably tip him over.

He's bony now; the ridges and bumps of his wrists and elbows are clearly visible under his ghostly-pale skin. His cheekbones are sharper than usual, accentuated by the cherry red flush that sits atop them. They haven't been able to get him to eat in days, anything they try just sits against his lips and eventually falls.

 _He's_ _wasting_ _away_ , Jack thinks to himself, before squeezing his eyes shut and shaking the thought away. That's not right— Race will get better. He has to.

He wakes up sometimes, which has to be a good sign. Well... he opens his eyes, at least. He's not really _awake_. He's caught in a feverish delirium, where he stares blankly past Jack with a horrifying emptiness in his eyes, and he cries and panics over what must be invisible monsters that Jack can't see.

This time, though, it's different. Jack is sitting in the chair next to Race's bed while the other fellas are out selling, a hand resting gently on his thin, pale arm, when Race's eyes open up for the first time that morning.

Jack hardly notices, he's drawing a mountain landscape on an old newspaper, using some of the fancy paints the boys had worked together to get him for his birthday. It occupies his time, as it gets rather dull just sitting here with his sleeping friend, but they can't just leave him alone.

"Jack..." whispers Race, and Jack's eyes snap up to look at him. Race still looks awful, pale and feverish and sweating, but he's _awake_. "What're you doing?"

" _Racer_ ," breathes out Jack, dropping his paintbrush to the ground as he hurries to touch Race's cheek, almost as if to check that he's really there. "Oh god, Race, I've been so worried."

Race has been like Jack's little brother since they were ten and seven years old. They'd both found themselves on the streets around the same time and immediately made a pact to stick together. That's why Jack's been refusing to leave his side for the past few days, despite many of the other boys offering to take a turn. He has moved a few times, sure, as he'd let Albert and Henry, two of Race's closest friends take a turn. But Jack ultimately always found himself back here, too worried to do much else.

Race gestures weakly in the direction of the newspaper on Jack's lap, stubbornly sticking to his question. 

"That..." he mumbles, waving his index finger towards it. "What is it?"

This is similar to how he'd been a few days ago— awake and talking, but hardly present. It's like the fever has muddled up his brain and not much is making sense to him.

"It's a picture I've been working on," says Jack, gently, before indulging Race and holding up the pape. "What d'you think, pal?"

Race stares at it for a long time, squinting like he's struggling to focus.

"Ugly," he finally says, and Jack's heart sinks for a moment before Race lets out the weakest, most pitiful laugh Jack has ever heard. He manages a little shake of his head and a small but genuine smile. "Kidding. It's real good, Jacky-boy."

Race's voice is raspy and hardly above a whisper, but it's been long enough since Jack has heard it that it's like music to his ears anyway.

"Well thanks, Racer," says Jack, tracing his thumb over the back of Race's hand. "I'm glad you like it."

Race is quiet for a moment, like he's gearing himself up to speak again. This conversation seems to be taking a lot out of him, and Jack wouldn't be surprised if he falls back to sleep soon.

"Say," starts Race, finally, so tired he can hardly get the words out anymore. His eyelids are drooping heavily but his smile stays drawn across his face. "Why don't you draw something right here?" He moves his arm slightly, where his paper-white forearm sits like a blank canvas. "I think that'd be swell."

Jack smiles a little and leans over to grab his paintbrush from where he'd dropped it. 

"Sure, buddy, is there anything you really want?" he asks, but when he looks back to Race's face, his eyes are already closed, his lips still curved up happily. "Alright then..." he mumbles to himself, dipping his brush into the cup of water next to him and then carefully picking up some blue pigment with it. "I suppose it's up to me, isn't it?"

 

-

 

Looking back now, Jack thinks Race knew that when he fell back to sleep that morning, he wouldn't wake up again.

The way he'd been so calm and collected, totally different from the terrified panic that had been gripping him for days— he had to have known.

Jack had worked on the painting on Race's arm for several hours, trying to perfect it for when he woke up, but as he finished it he noticed that he couldn't hear wheezing anymore. Race's breaths had been growing softer and shallower for the past hour or so, and now they were gone.

He was still almost smiling; he looked as if he were still asleep. But when Jack felt his wrist, searching for a pulse, there was nothing. When Jack felt his forehead, the fever was gone and his skin was already growing cold. 

Race was gone.

Jack knew he had to go get Kloppman, ask him what to do, where Race would go now, what would happen, but he just couldn't.

The night sky on Race's arm didn't have quite enough stars on it yet. He had to finish this or it would never sit right with him. Jack dipped into his white paint and tapped on a few more dots.

As the image finally pulled itself together to some semblance of completion, Jack decided to add just one more star.

A big, bright one, right in the middle. That was Race, shining brighter than everyone around him, since he always had to be the center of attention.

Jack almost managed a sad little laugh to himself at that, but he couldn't help it when the chuckle dissolved into a sob.

That's how Specs found him when the boys came back for a lunch break. Leaning onto Race's limp body and sobbing with the force of an earthquake.

It was a blur, as people came in and out of the room, and Jack eventually found himself in the hallway, crying into Davey's arms instead.

"Let it out," Davey had whispered, rubbing a gentle hand up and down Jack's back. "It's all gonna be okay. He'll always be watching over you."

From that moment forward, every time Jack looked up at the stars he saw his little brother, laughing down at him from the brightest, best star in the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> so.... you made it through that. if it wasn’t clear, race had pneumonia or something, but the story started past the point where his symptoms were specific to anything in particular. all we saw was his last few days. 
> 
> thank you for reading, feel free to leave a comment of anything you might be feeling about all this. 
> 
> thanks for letting me channel some not-so-good feelings into something a little better :)


End file.
